


Achilles’ Last Stand

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [39]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There are things out there…bad things."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Achilles’ Last Stand

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info,  
>  warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Authors:** [](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/profile)[**swordofmymouth**](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, OC and canon characters  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Wordcount:** ~15,000  
>  **Warnings:** language, violence, sexuality, suggested dubcon  
>  **Betas:** [](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**dotfic**](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/) and [](http://murron.livejournal.com/profile)[**murron**](http://murron.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/profile)[**swordofmymouth**](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/) ; digital illustration by [](http://quantum-witch.livejournal.com/profile)[**quantum_witch**](http://quantum-witch.livejournal.com/), which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/47224.html)** (art contains spoilers for the chapter)

Castiel awakens to a sound.

It's a quiet sound, modest, as though someone is trying to muffle it, and immediately after he hears it, all falls silent again.

Silent except for faint out-breaths a short distance away, and for a moment Castiel is confused, can't ascertain where he is or who is with him there. He pores through a flood of memories unique to him: the Host, angels as he once was, nestlings comfortable with each other and their effortless comradeship, forged in countless battles. But they never breathed, not like this.

He listens, his own near-human breath bated, until he hears the other sound again. With it he discards his past, because this is the _now_ and he knows the sound he hears is Meg weeping. Her stifled, hitching sobs are strangely lulling, and he keeps his eyes closed, drifts back into half-sleep. He imagines that he is in his bed at Bobby's house, and that if he turns over he will come to rest against the warm curve of Dean's back, that he will nuzzle the nape of Dean's neck and Dean will grunt in his sleep and push instinctively into him.

_Dean isn't here_.

The realization that he can't sense Dean nearby jolts Castiel back to the present again. He's lying on something uncomfortable, that digs into his back…his rucksack, he realizes. He snaps his eyes open to black, pushes up onto his elbows, pats his hand cautiously around him. Rough woodgrain meets his touch, and as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness he can see a greenish, phosphorescent glow stretching up above him, reminiscent of the strange light in the chimney-crevice he ascended with Claire Novak. He backtracks, remembers being surrounded by something soft, and alive, and malevolent, remembers how it pulled at him even while it repelled him, remembers the world turning upside-down and spinning madly as they fell. His ears pop and he swears the sound they make must be audible, a sign of the rapid change in pressure that signals they are leagues beneath the surface of the world.

_Dean, where is Dean?_

Separation anxiety clutches at Castiel, the same ache and need he always feels when Dean isn't in close proximity. He reaches back into the recesses of himself, into those old places where his dying grace still lingers like a fog, and he tests it, tries to take what he wants from the elements, from time and dimension and space, tries to shape it into force of will and intent that will take him to wherever Dean is. It fizzles uselessly, as it did on the surface after the Beast awoke and Castiel thought to beat his wings and take to the sky with the Winchesters clutched tight to him while _shit happened_ all around them. Here, what's left of his grace is dormant when he needs it most, and in a flash of insight he thinks he understands why Meg sobs, can empathize with her tears. While he can imagine the size and extent of her loss, her demonhood scattered and gone in the wind, swallowed up in the belly of the Beast, he can't imagine what it would be like to do it alone.

Meg has no one.

He has Dean.

If he can find him.

_Dean_. Again, it aches through Castiel, a mixture of longing and fear. He can't help forming the name on his tongue, needing to hear himself say it here in the darkness, and the sounds of distress stop abruptly. "Meg?" he fishes cautiously.

"There are things out there," she says softly, after a beat of silence. "Bad things. One of them was in here, I killed it. I warded the truck."

_Bad things_. There is an irony in it, Castiel supposes. "When you say bad things, I assume you mean things that are worse than you?" he remarks, as he sits up and casts his eyes about him properly.

"Things that are worse than _us_ ," she replies after a second or two, and maybe the old acid is creeping back into her tone. "You're no angel, angel."

Touché, but there is no time for this, because now that Castiel's vision is sufficiently acclimatized it falls on a long, bulky shape at the cabin end of the truck bed, and he finds he is frozen in place by the ghastly possibility that flits through his mind. "What you killed," he croaks. "Are you sure it was—"

"One of those mutant fish-zombies. Your boyfriend and his brother aren't here."

The relief is like balm but Castiel has no time to take comfort in it, as he vaguely sees a missile arc through the darkness towards him. Something heavy clunks down onto his lap, and he startles, manages to bite back a curse, and puts his hand there before he can stop himself. Round, wet, icy-cold. It gives when he presses on it, and it feels disturbingly like—

"I cut its head off with Sam's machete."

"Dean would say you got your groove back," Castiel rasps out, as he tosses the evidence of her defensive expertise over his shoulder, and the name has his chest squeeze his heart tight again. "Have you heard anything that might—"

"Nothing. I couldn't even make out which one of you was here with me until you woke. I thought you were dead."

Castiel hears the rustle of fabric, can just barely pick out the figure moving inside the cabin. She sucks in a noise that suggests extreme discomfort, but he puts her out of his mind, lets it fill it with grim resolve instead. He needs his sword, and he sets his jaw, concentrates as he reaches inside himself for his grace again. It barely flickers, muted into submission by this realm and the thing that rules here, and Castiel can't help the harsh sound of frustration he makes. _Dean_.

He shrugs off his pack, pushes up to his knees, and when he sees that the barge is still chained to the Duck he throws up a prayer out of habit, even though he isn't sure if he believes any more. He crabs his way over the stern of the Duck, pops the hatch in the deck of the barge, and drops down into the cargo hold. The larger weapons duffel is where Dean left it before they set off on their trek, dumped beside the mattress the demon had been occupying during the voyage, and Castiel hoists it up and out, pulling himself back out behind it.

He eases the duffel up and over into the Duck, scanning the darkness beyond the sides of the craft, and alert to any sounds of movement, slithers his way after the bag and pats about inside it, finding a flashlight he sets down on the deck next to him. He roots through the jumbled weaponry again, until his fingers fall on the flare gun Jonas Harper's friend thoughtfully provided, and then he pokes further, locates the cartridge-packed bandolier that goes with it.

"You say this vehicle is warded?" he directs over towards the top end of the Duck.

After a sniff, Meg answers, "Standard devil's trap and a few others, just to be sure. There haven't been any more of those guys climbing in here, so I think it's working."

There is a thigh holster in the bag too, and Castiel straps it on, fills its slots with two lethally sharp knives and one of the guns. "You seem somewhat calmer," he observes as he works. "You have Sam's machete still? We may need it out there."

He hears the metallic clink of its blade tapping against something. "It's amazing how shock, blood loss and intense pain focus the mind," she says randomly, before adding, "My leg is broken."

And, _time, there is no time for this_.

There is a baseball bat in the bag, and Castiel tugs it out, crawls over to where she is sitting, stopping briefly to hoist the headless body up and over the side of the Duck. He snaps on the flashlight, looks into a shell-shocked, moon-pale face.

"Looks like you're on your own, Clarence," she says, curling her lips into a feeble smile before she casts her eyes down.

Castiel doesn't respond, shines the beam over her leg. Blood is congealing underneath it, tacky and dark, and just below her knee the limb diverts into a slight angle at a wound through which the pearly, splintered ends of snapped bone protrude.

"It's a compound fracture," she murmurs distantly. "If we ever get out of this sewer, I'm looking at plates, rods, pins. I'll limp for the rest of my life, assuming gangrene doesn't set in and they take the leg off."

Castiel meets her gaze and she shrugs. "My last meatpuppet was a nurse." She watches him for a moment, licks her lips, and her tone turns harder. "Come on, choose the moral high road. You owe me for taking care of Crowley for you."

It's clear what she's asking. "Ending your misery might be the moral high road," Castiel parries brusquely. "And you destroyed Crowley for your own gain. It was purely personal, there was no altruism in the gesture."

Her lips pull tight. "Are you telling me it wouldn't have been even a little bit personal if you'd ganked the bastard?"

Castiel knows he can't claim that with any degree of credibility, so he bypasses the question. "In any case, I can't fix it," he says. "My grace is blocked here." He doesn't dwell on whether he would if he could, or whether he would hold onto whatever is left of himself in case he needed it for Dean. He lays the flashlight down, notices abstractedly that its beam is playing across sigils daubed on the wooden decking in what must be the woman's own blood. He lays the baseball bat alongside her leg, rises to his knees to unbuckle his belt. "Are you wearing one of these?" he asks.

Her eyes widen and she smirks a little, like the demon in her always used to, and Castiel can't help acknowledging that there is something admirable in her bravado.

"I'll need it to secure the splint," he clarifies.

She grimaces, straightens up slightly and mimics him, tugging her own belt out of its loops and handing it over.

Castiel sets it down on the deck, slips his bowie out of his boot and uses it to slice off a strip of the leather at the end of the belt. He hands it to her and her eyebrows tent curiously.

"You'll need to bite down on something while I try to set this," he says.

"I doubt it's settable, but you have at it." She snorts then. "I guess this is my penance," she jokes, a little defiantly, and after swallowing hard she lifts the leather strip to her mouth, fastens her teeth to it.

"Ready?" Castiel asks her, and she rolls her eyes.

Her frame locks up tight as he puts his hands on her leg. He doesn't look at her, ignores the way her hands flap at his, ignores the strangled whining. He is gentle but thorough as he straightens the limb, lifting it slightly to run the belts underneath it and around the bat, above and below the break. It's inadequate at best, he knows, but he can do no more for her. When he's finished she's still and quiet, and her oblivion is a relief because it means he can leave.

He crawls back to where he propped his rucksack, feels about inside it. Water, two bottles, and he retrieves one, stands and picks his way back to where the unconscious demon – _woman_ , he corrects himself – is slumped. He places the bottle on her lap before he makes his way back to the duffel, hefts it, and drops it over the side of the Duck. He snags the flare gun and lowers himself overboard, to the surface.

There is solid rock below him, faint impressions of craggy walls surrounding the Duck. Castiel pauses to listen for any sounds, but he can't hear them or sense anything. He raises the flare gun over his head, pulls the trigger, and pink light explodes to reveal an endless, empty cavern stretching up into the sky and continuing on into the distance here at ground level. It's a mirror image of the crack in Mendocino, magnified exponentially, and Dean and Sam are lost in it somewhere. Castiel breathes deeply for a moment, closes his eyes and pushes his hand up inside his t-shirt to his scar. It worked before, in the other rift, and he concentrates. And there it is, the barest tingle of heat, like a tiny electric shock, and he gasps with the sheer relief of it.

"Dean," he breathes out into the darkness again, and it strengthens his resolve like he knew it would.

He bends to pull a machete out of the bag, hoists it up on his shoulder, and steals forward into the darkness.

Dean comes round with a college marching band playing Sousa music in his head, and this time is even worse than every other time he's done it because Bobby's dog is snuffling at his face, dolloping drool on him, and _Jesus_ , that can't be healthy because the damn mutt probably just finished licking its butt clean after its morning dump.

"Fuck off, Cheney," he manages, and he flails a hand up to grab the dog's collar and heave it away.

And…fabric, too-long hair, slick, gluey flesh under his questing palm, and that isn't the sour blast of dog-breath, it's the fetid stench of rotting marine life, _danger-Will-Robinson_.

Dean snaps fully awake and looks up into the soft glow of golden eyes surrounded by shimmering scales, a lipless mouth bared over fangs, and _fuck, fish-guy_. They share a frozen moment of mutual _huh?!_ and then Dean bucks with all his might.

The mutant is taken unawares and bounces up off him to land on its back right beside him, where only Castiel should lie, and Dean flips himself up and over as adroitly as he can with a headache the size of Texas slowing him down, straddling the thing before it can recover. He fumbles the Glock he commandeered from the duffel out of his waistband, curses as the thing's hand streaks up lightning-fast to smash it from his grasp. He doesn't have any other weapons on him that he can reach without leaving himself unprotected, but he can improvise and does, pinning the hybrid in place with a hand wrapped around its throat while he pats the other around wildly, searching for something, _anything_. His fingers fall on what feels like a football-sized rock and he grasps it, raises it above his head and slams it down, once, twice, three times, and then once more with feeling while the thing jerks weakly under him.

The creature falls still, and Dean flops back over onto his ass, squinting into the dim light of what appears to be a cave as he tries to quieten his breathing. It's silent, no sign of any more of the mutants. "Cas?" he whispers. "Sam? You there?"

He waits, poised and listening, but there's no answer. Worry squirms its queasy way through the pit of his belly as he eases off his pack and fishes out his penlight, training the faint beam briefly across the body at his side. It's wearing a safari vest with what looks like the corner of a billfold poking out of the top pocket, and Dean eases his fingers in there gingerly, pulls out a slim leather wallet and shakes it open to see a Louisiana driver's license. Edward Robicheaux, the kayaker who was taken near Crystal Beach, he recalls. "Sorry, Ed," he croaks. "But thanks for the camera, buddy."

He slides the wallet back where he found it, lifts up his makeshift weapon, finds he was correct and it is in fact a football-sized rock. It's spattered with blood, gray matter and hair, but as of now it's his lucky rock, and he's keeping the damn thing. His gun is several feet away, and he reaches for it before pushing up to a wobbly stand, and _fuck_ , a noise, the scrape of a boot, and he spins around so fast he loses his balance and starts to poleaxe, only to be caught and steadied by hands gripping firmly at his forearms.

"Dean," his brother rasps out. "Thank God."

One of Sam's palms lands against Dean's cheek, taps it, and the other hand stays fixed around his wrist, starts pulling at him. "You okay?" Sam asks breathlessly, as he hustles Dean along.

"Yeah, but Cas—"

"Then start running. It's like Helm's Deep down here."

Dean doesn't need telling twice.

The place is a labyrinth of shafts that spiral down and drop to nowhere and nooks, cracks and larger tunnels that branch out of the main cavern and coil away into the distance. It's a jumble, a complicated snarl of paths, roads, escape routes perhaps, though Castiel doubts that.

He moves stealthily through the maze, machete extended and ready, listening for the slightest sound, his eyes scanning as keenly as they can in this dim light without his grace to sharpen his senses. He detours carefully around boulders, vast spherical limestone and granite formations and stalagmites that could be hiding an ambush, maneuvers cautiously into apertures that lead nowhere but loop back into the main system, squeezes himself past jagged pustules that suppurate foul-smelling liquid. This place is the next level on from where he fell with Claire Novak, he supposes, and he recalls how that place felt alive, felt oppressive, felt as if it was sentient and observing his every move.

He ponders the memory, slows to press his hand flat to the damp wall, and lets the duffel slide down to the ground as he leans in to examine the rock more closely. It glitters with something he assumes is calcite crystals, but it exudes heat and its surface is less hard than he expected. There is _give_ there, and he can feel a far-off vibration, feel pits in the rock like pores in skin, slimy fluid that feels like a film of sweat. He gazes at the way his palm glistens moist with it, drifts for a moment on the notion that this might be interstitial fluid, that it might perhaps bathe the internal organs of this cavity with nutrients, that the intricate network of channels might be the island's lymphatic system. He touches the rock again, feels the hum of it, finds that its warmth is somehow comforting, welcoming, that it is like reconciliation. _Solace_ he thinks hazily. _Sustenance_.

Castiel senses them before he sees them, a blur of dimly lit motion in his peripheral vision, and he acts purely on instinct, whirling just before the first one reaches for him, bringing the machete up in a scything arc that separates its head from its body with surgical precision.

He backs away warily as they advance, light on his feet, knees bent for fast propulsion into his next move. Even in this huge space they make him feel claustrophobic as they close in, forming a semicircle around him like they did in Rhode Island. They sway from side to side on their feet and Castiel notes abstractedly that their shoes are long-lost and their toes are elongated and as webbed as their fingers are when they point at him.

He means to destroy them, and destroy them he will. But their noise, their incessant, maddening _jabber_ , is somehow soothing, enthralling. It isn't hostile at all, it's welcoming; it speaks of familiarity, of home, of peace.

"No," Castiel hears himself plead once only, ineffectually, the word followed by a shudder and a chill that turns his blood to ice.

But then, suddenly, his foreboding is draining away. He opens himself to their conversation, their dialect bleeding into him, becoming ever more clear in his head, so that any moment now it won't be eerie, formless nonsense at all, it will be a tribute, a call, poetry; a song he joins in with because he knows the words by heart and always has. He smiles, drops his flare gun and his blade, and reaches out with a—

—dull, solid thwack of body on body it ends, tearing Castiel back to the now so violently it dazes him for a moment, so that his eyes can barely track the brawl that is going on around him. He can hear the crunch of fists, harsh grunts of effort, muttered oaths, shouts, and animal shrieks; can see the flash of pale metal as another hand swings the machete he can vaguely remember slipping from his grasp. A gun blats loudly, the noise echoing up into the chasm and the flash illuminating swift-moving silhouettes, and the single blast is followed almost immediately by a barrage, as irrational fury erupts all around him. The flare gun ignites brightly, the cartridge ejecting and burying itself in the midriff of one of their assailants, where it sparks and combusts, the flames leaping out to catch other figures close by and shrouding them in fire.

Still disoriented, Castiel stumbles backward and starts to sink to the ground, only to be gripped at the scruff and hauled upright again. He finds himself staring into Dean's eyes, and even in the poor light he can see they are shining with a basic, atavistic fear.

"Don't pow-wow with them, you fuckin' idiot," Dean hollers at him. "Run."

Castiel points back in the direction from which he came. "The Duck," he manages. "It's warded."

Dean nods. "We're right behind you."

Castiel runs, hears footfalls pounding along behind him as they race through blackness, and he knows the ground is uneven, knows their pace is reckless, and that one slip could be the end for all of them. With every last particle of faith left in him, he prays – and suddenly there she is, sanctuary in the shape of a half-century old hybrid boat-truck, and they variously vault and clamber in over the sides, landing in a panting, cursing heap of exhausted limbs.

After a moment where Castiel sucks in a breath of dizzy relief, someone he thinks is Dean unthreads himself from their tangle and crabs back to the side to peek over.

"Are you sure this place is safe?"

It is Dean, his question hissed out urgently. "Meg warded it," Castiel responds wearily as he sits up, Sam flopping over onto his back next to him, an arm coming up to cover his face as he groans out the exertion.

"She's here?" Dean whispers.

"Her leg is broken." Castiel gestures towards the other end of the vehicle, to where the woman is still lying. It crosses his mind she could be dead but he's too worn out to check. "Badly broken," he adds. "I can't fix it, my grace is inhibited down here too."

Sam finally sits up next to him, bends his legs and rests his forehead on his knees, asks, "What are they doing?"

"Just milling about as far as I can see," Dean reports, his voice a little louder and more confident now it doesn't seem like an attack is imminent. "You got the flare gun?"

"Yeah, I managed to grab the bag too." Sam leans across to where the duffel is spilling its contents out over the deck, sends the weapon skittering across the wood.

The gun sounds, starbursts lighting up the space again, and Castiel rises to his knees behind Dean's shoulder, sees the thronging figures roughly thirty yards away. They don't seem to be doing anything but waiting, and the notion fills him with the same confusing mix of unease and comfort he felt as they surrounded him out there, before…the thought fades away to nothing. His recall is nebulous and unsure, his memories incoherent and disjointed. He turns away from them, closes his ears to their distant murmur, but still it buzzes in the back of his mind.

The sharp jab of an elbow into his ribs has him jump, swiveling his head around fast, to where Dean is sitting next to him now, apparently satisfied the mutants won't venture closer. He has a flashlight set next to him, illuminating the gloom, and he's biting his lip.

"We need to figure out a plan," he says, casual, but _not_ , and Castiel thinks he might be doing it for Sam's benefit, because when he glances over Sam is slumped in the kind of dejected huddle that signals resignation.

"We still have the False Prophet," Dean goes on, "so maybe we just give it another shot." He chuckles then, but in the yellow glow that lights him Castiel can see his eyes are flat and humorless. "So which one of you guys wasn't believing hard enough up there? Because I believed so damn hard it hurt."

"I believed," Sam offers after a brief hush, and he throws up a tired hand. "At least I think I did."

Another nudge at Castiel's side. "Then you're it, Cas."

Castiel frowns, thinks his way back to the ritual, swallows. His head is cloudy again, and he sees Dean's expression soften.

"You okay?" Dean lays his hand on Castiel's cheek again, traces the skin under Castiel's eye with his thumb. His eyes flit over to his brother briefly before he leans in and nuzzles Castiel's lips with his. "We're getting out of here," he murmurs. "We are." He pulls away, rubs at his stomach, and scowls his way into a detour. "I'm fuckin' starving. I wish we had one of your pies."

He launches himself onto all fours, disappears over the stern into the barge for a few minutes before clambering into the Duck again. "Bagels," he announces, as he returns to Castiel's side, and he presses one into Castiel's hand, tosses another over to Sam. "Stale, but better than nothing." After sinking his teeth in to take a mouthful of the bread, he continues. "We rest now. Think about where to go from here after that. Clear heads make better plans. It'll come together. Sam, you're first watch."

He sounds optimistic, confident, and Castiel looks from him over to Sam, who scrubs a hand through his hair, and motions towards the fuel tanks.

"At least we have gas."

Gas, yes, but their food and water will run out in the next few days, and Castiel suspects they won't be driving out of here any time soon. He casts his eyes towards the woman a few feet away, looks down to the bottle of water on her lap, finds himself thinking bleakly that it might be a waste of their resources given her chances.

"Shoo-dobe-rof-ay-tase, what does that even mean?" Dean grumbles out abruptly as he shoves the rest of the food in his mouth.

Castiel is at a loss for a moment until Sam shrugs. "It's what those things were chanting when we found you out there."

Dean yawns widely as he turns in and settles himself down on Castiel's shoulder. "It's what they were saying to you last time they hypnotized you like that, in Rhode Island. Bobby said so, remember?"

It strikes something somewhere inside Castiel, and unbidden he finds he's folding his arms protectively across his chest. "I don't know, I don't – remember. Was I? Hypnotized?" His mind churns confusion, and his voice cracks, although he doesn't know why. "I don't know what that means, I don't. I'm… _not_."

Dean is straightening now, body going taut as he comes alert again, and he points a look over at Sam and back. "It's alright, Cas," he reassures gently. "It was just a spell. Rest. Okay? We'll figure it out."

He slides his arm around Castiel's belly, pulls him over and into his warmth, and Castiel sinks into it gratefully.

"Pseudoprophetes."

It's quiet, and her voice might even be regretful when she says it.

Castiel feels Dean shift next to him, his interest piqued. "Come again?"

Meg is moving slowly, unscrewing the cap of the water bottle Castiel left on her thigh and raising it to her lips to gulp a mouthful. "Pseudoprophetes," she repeats after wiping her chin. "Not shoodobe – whatever it was you said. It means—"

"False Prophet," Sam finishes. "Of course. Pseudo, that's Ancient Greek." He huffs. "Bobby wrote it down phonetically, remember?"

"Yeah, and fish lips, hard to understand," Dean sighs ruefully. He clucks his tongue as he studies Meg, and it sounds loud in the hush. "How's the leg?" he asks diplomatically.

Castiel knows Dean's concern makes no difference, that they are going to kill the woman, the _pseudoprophetes_ , because it will save the world. And he isn't sure if he believes it will, if the chaos magic principle will work, because he didn't believe it would the first time, back in the jungle. He realizes this in a fraction of a second during which he can hear them in his head as if they never left, the _souls_ , whispering and plotting, mocking him; and he remembers how he railed against them for turning him into something he was never meant to be, and—

"It's not me," she cuts in simply, from far away. "The False Prophet."

Castiel sits up slowly, and his body feels heavy, weighed down with knowledge, because the murk is lifting and he is seeing the truth of the buried _thing_ in his memory as the cloud that obstructs it from view drifts away. He can hear Dean's response, terse and dismissive background noise, but his mind is clear now, painfully sharp, and the clarity sends cold coursing through him. He wants to curl up and whimper, and there isn't enough oxygen in the fast, shallow breaths he's taking, because—

"Not this time." She keeps going, quiet but firm. "The first time, yes. For Lucifer. But not this time. I didn't help prepare the way for the Beast this time round, it was—"

"Me."

Castiel doesn't recognize his own voice, is amazed he even manages to get the word out past the dryness in his throat, the nausea swirling through his gut, and the fear, the guilt. "Me," he gasps again, in dread and sheer wonder. "It's me. It always was."

There is fear in Dean's expression when he twists around to look at Castiel, bewilderment too, and his eyes are suddenly too big for his face. He reaches out to Castiel, but there can be no comfort for this, not really, and it suffocates Castiel, makes him giddy with horror and disgust at himself.

"No…"

Castiel can hear someone saying it, over and over, _no-no-no-no_ , but Dean's lips aren't moving, Dean is just staring at him, his mouth slack.

"No," Castiel cries, because it's _his_ denial, breathless and reedy with devastation. "No, no, no, no," he cries, and he's shuffling away, rapidly, his boot heels skidding on the wood, his head shaking, _no_ , as Dean crawls after him, pulls him back and into his arms. Over Dean's shoulder Castiel can see Sam, his face appalled, a hand pressed to his head, and he hears Dean gruff above him, throwing a jumble of sharp words back at his brother, _…need to be with him, talk some sense into him_.

Sam nods swiftly, doesn't speak, and Castiel feels himself being heaved up and chivvied over the stern of the Duck and down through the hatch Dean only recently disappeared through to forage for food. _Balthazar_ , he's thinking, out of the blue; and only now does he comprehend what his dream-brother meant when he told him, _the one who begins it is the one who must end it_ , and only now does he understand the sorrow and pity in Balthazar's eyes. "I'm damned, Dean," he chokes out into the dark. "I'm damned, and I'm afraid, afraid to go back there, I'm—"

The blow isn't particularly hard but the sound of Dean's hand on Castiel's cheek is loud as a pistol shot, and when the cargo hold lamp snaps on Dean's eyes are fierce, even if his palm is gentle when he touches it to Castiel's face again.

Castiel swallows through the throbbing sting of it, and, "I began it, Dean," he whispers, and he hears his own deranged laugh as he thinks suddenly of that small kernel of suspicion that has nagged at him, that small part of him that knew this and always has. "I am the False Prophet…when I freed the souls I began it, and my miracles prepared the way. And you have to destroy me, you—"

Dean pulls back and hits him again, harder, with his fist this time. His knuckles slam into Castiel's jaw, sharp and unforgiving, and Castiel tastes blood as he loses his balance and crashes into the wall. His slide down it is halted by Dean's fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, and Dean is up close now, his eyes already wet and red, his expression stricken and too young for more loss.

"How dare you," Dean chides him hoarsely, "how fuckin' _dare_ you say that to me. I'm in love with you. How dare you think I can do that to you…"

There is blind fury and numb shock in his gaze as he trails off, and Castiel knows the same desperation and horror, felt it himself in an alleyway in Cicero at that moment when he knew he would do anything to keep Dean, _anything_. He puts his hand on Dean's cheek now, wipes the pad of his thumb through Dean's tears. "The one who begins it is the one who will end it," he says, suddenly calm and controlled, because he has accepted it. "I began it. And Michael shall bind together the False Prophet and the Beast, and he shall hurl them for all eternity into the Lake of Fire."

Dean makes a small, unintelligible sound from far back in his throat, and it seems that if he can't stop Castiel with a beating, he will stop him with his mouth. He falls in and swallows down Castiel's words, his hands clamped to the sides of Castiel's head, fingers twining themselves in Castiel's hair as he tumbles them down onto the mattress. He covers Castiel with his body, grinding down onto him, and Castiel gives himself up to it, swept along in this passion Dean is using to build a wall between them and what must happen.

Suddenly there is naked skin, so much of it, smooth and hot, and damp breath panting out softly, _mine, always mine_ , as greedy hands touch and map and cling; and suddenly there are lips and teeth and tongue on Castiel, rough and frantic, _never let go of you, never_. Suddenly there are spit-slick fingers working inside him, and then the hard press and the first agonizing, forced thrust of Dean, rigid and burning hot as he splits Castiel apart; and Castiel welcomes the ferocity of it and loves it with all of his heart, snapping his hips up instinctively to meet Dean. A whiteout of pleasure explodes inside him, cauterizing the pain, and Castiel gasps at the sensation, pulls Dean in again and again to slam into that same spot, savage enough to bruise and scar him deep inside just as Dean scarred his skin. It feels like he is taking what's his, finally, and all the while Dean sobs out his grief, _Cas-Cas-Cas_ , biting frantically at the skin of Castiel's neck, until his muscles lock in spasm and he pours himself into Castiel at last, _love you, love you, always, I love you_ , while Castiel clenches around him and spills across their bellies.

It is over in bare moments, but Castiel will have the memory of this at least, and he wraps his legs around Dean and holds him there in the empty ache and despair of afterwards, stroking Dean's back as Dean shatters in his embrace, his tears tracking warm, wet tributaries along Castiel's chest.

"I'm afraid, Dean," Castiel whispers, as Dean's breath finally evens out and his body grows heavy with exhaustion. "I'm afraid of damnation. But I would have stayed tethered to my post down there willingly to spare you this."

Dean isn't asleep yet, and he rouses slightly. His fingers move restlessly in Castiel's hair, and his lips mouth tenderly at Castiel's throat. "Sssshh," he breathes. "Don't be afraid, Cas. Ssshhh. I got you."

Meg is making small noises of discomfort, but even though Sam is staring right at her, he's seeing through her.

He's thinking of penance, reparation, atonement. He thinks maybe he has atoned – or at least he thought he had. He thought Castiel had too, that the angel's atonement might be the knowledge that his own hands were used to commit sins and crimes that he never would have consented to, even if he did choose his path himself. Like Sam had, and they have both suffered for their pride and misdeeds. But it isn't enough, or so it seems.

"Maybe it's divine justice," he says out loud.

Meg clears her throat, interrupting his reverie, and when he focuses on her she gives a listless shrug. "The wrath of God is a hungry animal with a big appetite," she says faintly. "The big kahuna can't just overlook violations of His law…it would bring moral confusion upon His creation." She pauses to drink from her bottle of water. "Bible study," she adds then. "Know thine enemy."

Sam studies her. "Not your enemy any more, though."

His tone is skeptical enough that she smirks at him. "Nope. And there's nothing so zealous as a convert."

"But you have no soul," Sam reminds her, and damn, but he knows the difference that makes, remembers the thing he was and its moral nihilism; its lack of any real purpose other than the impulse to destroy anything that got in its way.

"Maybe I'll grow one," she wheezes, and she shifts slightly, sucks in a breath of pain.

A few feet away is the first aid kit Dean used to dress the cut on Sam's head, and Sam isn't the soulless void he once was even if she is, so he leans across to snag it, crawls over to her. The machete he was using to beat the jungle into submission is resting next to her thigh and he eyes it dubiously. After a mildly derisive roll of her eyes, she pushes it over in his direction, and he skitters it well away from her reach.

There is a bottle of Bactine in the kit, painkillers too, and he shakes out two, glances at her waxy, drawn face and shakes out two more, offers them over. She takes them wordlessly, washes them down with a gulp of water from her bottle, braces herself as he brandishes the antiseptic. He pauses, can't help wincing as he looks down at her leg, and he wonders if it's even worth putting her through this.

As if she read his mind, she says, "It's worth it."

Her eyes are oddly dark again when he meets them, so that he wonders if the demon is simply dormant, inhibited like Castiel's grace.

"It's worth it," she repeats. "We have an escape route. End him, and you end this. You save the world, and we get out of here." Her lips go thin. "I'll be needing my leg for that."

There's a minute when she stares at Sam as if she's daring him to refuse, but he unscrews the cap of the bottle, pours the liquid over the gash, and she bites into her knuckles as she whimpers through the sting of it. He sits back on his heels, gives her some time.

"To think I used to find pain such a turn-on," she chokes out eventually, and her smile is like a snarl.

There are gauze pads in the kit, and Sam places a couple over the jagged ends of bone, tapes them in place. It's a rudimentary dressing, but it might help keep the wound clean.

He isn't sure how much time has passed. He crawls back to his post, rises to his knees and peers over the side of the Duck to where the creatures still wander around aimlessly, no closer than they were when his brother disappeared into the gloom, pushing Castiel ahead of him. Sam finds himself suddenly thinking of Castiel diving into the sea, and how the storm whipped the water into a frenzy as this place rose from the deep; remembers how his brother concluded that the Beast must know they had his False Prophet. And Dean was right, in the cruelest possible way.

Sam sighs, flops back down onto his ass, pulls his knees up and hugs them as he eyes the ex-demon. "What were you going to do with him?" he asks her after a moment. "Back when you were bartering Adam for him?"

She shrugs. "Use him to control the Beast. Or to end it, if it didn't play nice. When you have the thing that can help lock it back in its cell, you're holding all the cards."

Sam swallows. "What happens if we don't play our hand?"

"You're so predictable." She _tsks_. "You know what happens, what this is. It's bigger than him. It's bigger than whatever your brother has going on with him. You don't do this, the Earth dies screaming. It's probably happening up there right now. Is he worth that? After what he did to you?"

Sam regards her for a moment. "This is never going to be about revenge for me," he says softly. " _Never_. And it's not my decision to make anyway."

She cants her head, doesn't answer him, and they fall quiet for a few strained minutes until Sam pushes up and twists around again, fixing his gaze over the back of the Duck into the barge, to the seam of soft light seeping up around the hatch. He chews his lip. It's been deathly quiet for what seems like a long while after the brief turmoil of raised, overwrought voices and sheer distress that had him pressing his hands to his ears to give them some privacy.

Sam debates what to do next, finally gives in and slides himself up and over the stern to slip his fingers in the latch and lift the hatch cover up a few inches. His eyes flash over a tangle of naked limbs, half covered with a blanket and discarded clothing; the back of Dean's head, his brother's face hidden in Castiel's neck, and Castiel's eyes closed, one arm wrapped protectively around Dean.

"Jesus, Cas," Sam mutters wearily, through the awful, hollow sadness he feels. He lowers the hatch as stealthily as he can, glances back at Meg. "Is there another way?" he asks.

"Not that I know of," she says, "and I would tell you if there was, Sam." She smiles, but Sam thinks there isn't any real pleasure in it. "I always had a soft spot for Clarence," she muses. "But…the one who began it has to end it. That's the way it works."

Dean wakes slowly, out of a dream of a cottage in the Ozarks, aged by weather and time, and the woman who told him he shone so brightly she could see him for miles. _Beware little boy, for your journey is just beginning_ , she tells him, and then light lasers out of her eyes because she isn't Sula at all, she is the gatekeeper angel on his granite throne at the borders of Purgatory. His sword bleeds flame as his words ring out, _there are rules you have to follow…use the same door for going in and going out…the Balance depends on it_ , but even as he is speaking his face is blurring and running together, like a painting out in the rain, into something harder, narrow-sculpted, and beaky. _Death_ , who lifts one skinny eyebrow into a supercilious curve and hisses _play your role_ , like it means something.

Dean blinks himself fully awake with a wince, because he knows it does mean something, that it all does.

He's draped across Castiel, his cheeks tight with the salt of dried-on tears, and his eyes lethargic with weeping. His nose is stuffy with it, and there is a tight band of pressure around his brow, the headache he came round with out in the caverns still lurking. He lifts his head up cautiously, studies Castiel's face, gone soft and oddly innocent in repose. There is a black bruise starting to blossom on Castiel's jaw, where Dean's fist landed, and Dean can still taste Castiel's blood on his tongue. A wave of tenderness wells up inside him, and he tips his head down, kisses the scar he left on Castiel's chest, before he slides his way out from under Castiel's arm in tiny increments, watching for every twitch of muscle and flicker of eyelid, careful not to wake his friend.

Once up, Dean dresses swiftly and silently, and as he pulls on his jeans, his finger catches on a crumpled edge of paper poking out of his back pocket. He pulls it out, unfolds it, marvels that he even still has it as he reads the words.

He watches Castiel sleep for another moment, like he knows Castiel has watched him sleep; and this is the last time he will do it, the last time he will wake up to this.

"I love you," he whispers. "And I wanted more time for us."

He gazes at Castiel for another long moment, and then he climbs stealthily out of the hull to speak with his brother.

Dean lifts a cautionary finger to his lips as he eases silently into the Duck and pads over to where Sam is keeping vigil.

"I want to let him sleep," he mutters as he lowers himself to the deck. He doesn't meet Sam's look, and Sam can see that his brother's eyes are swollen and bleary, his face drawn in lines of stress and hopelessness. He looks worn out, Sam thinks. He looks stunned. He looks suddenly older, and it cuts Sam to the quick to see it and know the reason.

After a minute of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Sam, legs sprawled out carelessly ahead of him, Dean clears his throat. "I guess it wasn't Meg who flashed up on Coolio's radar."

"I guess not," Sam agrees quietly.

"The spell was right on the mark…we just got the mark wrong," Dean says then. "And I guess Cas really didn't believe in it. Subconsciously anyway. Fuck, I wasn't even serious when I said that, it was just a bad joke."

Dean's voice is hoarse, and Sam unscrews his bottle of water, offers it to his brother. "So you think it's true?" he broaches carefully, as Dean drinks long and deep.

"Yeah, I think it's true. Fits doesn't it? He says he began it all when he freed the souls and then worked all the damn miracles, says it prepared the way for the Beast." Dean takes another gulp, wipes his mouth and sidetracks. "Must be why Crowley went after the Novak kid, why he thought her blood might work to raise Hastur. She's Cas's blood. Theoretically, anyway. And he wore her for a while."

Sam glances across to where Meg's head is lolling drowsily on her chest. "It's why she wanted to trade him for Adam," he says, low and confidential. "She said she thought she might be able to use him to control Cthulhu."

Dean shakes his head. "It was right there in front of us, all along, all the clues. Even Cas had a gut feeling it all led back to him. Jesus."

He dips his head in his hand, and Sam steels himself to ask the question he doesn't want to ask, the question he has been practicing in his head since soon after the hatch closed down behind Dean, trying out different permutations on his tongue. But it comes down to cold, hard confrontation in the end, because there is no real point in trying to sugarcoat any of this even if it makes him feel ill to think of it. "Dean. What are we going to do?"

His brother sighs out for long seconds, his face still shielded, and he doesn't answer Sam's question. "I love him," he says instead, his voice brittle. "I love him, Sammy. Isn't that just the dumbest fuckin' thing? That I've been thinking about a future with him? No more hunting, a home maybe? Where I could tinker with cars, and he could grow a garden and bake pies, and maybe Claire might visit with him if she wanted to. And me and him would sit on the porch swing and be grumpy old guys together once the rest of his grace wore off."

Dean chokes out the last few words, swipes angrily at his eyes, and Sam feels the burn of tears starting himself, has to blink hard. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he whispers, and he knows it sounds damned inadequate, because it is damned inadequate.

Next to him, Dean is taking shuddering breaths, fighting for control. Sam can feel that his brother is shaking, feel the tremors through the press of Dean's shoulder, and he reaches across, grips Dean's upper arm, holds onto it.

"You should have seen him down there, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and it's a wistful-sounding tangent Sam didn't expect. "He was ugly as fuckin' sin, but – man, he was beautiful too. Like he was made of light or something. Things like him don't belong in places like that."

Sam slants his eyes left to see Dean biting down savagely on his bottom lip, and his brother clears his throat decisively.

"But. We have to save the world," Dean says, and his voice is steadier, slower. "No one wants the Apocalypse on their rap sheet, right?"

"Right," Sam answers softly, and even if Castiel's panic-stricken denials are ringing through his brain, he knows the angel would never, will never, shirk from this last act of atonement.

Dean is shifting now, moving around to sit in front of Sam, his back to the woman as if he doesn't want her to see their faces as they talk. "And the mother of all prophecies said the one who began it has to end it, right?" He leans forward a little as he speaks, slides his hand into his back pocket, and pulls out a slip of folded paper.

Sam nods. "Meg said it too." After a second or two, and for all the comfort it will provide, he adds, "she said if there was another way she'd tell us, and I don't think she was lying."

Dean is unfolding the paper as Sam speaks, and he swerves the conversation again. "I had this weird dream as I was waking. And I thought about it some, and then I found this. I kept it, don't really know why. Maybe I was just supposed to."

He's squinting at the paper in the dim light, shaking his head in what looks like wonder, as if he's just now seeing something and is amazed it has taken him this long. "It's my fortune," he elaborates, so quiet his voice is almost inaudible. "From that crazy underwater palace, remember? An enlightened individual is one who knows his own true value."

Dean looks up and smiles at Sam then, and although the one-eighty turn he just made seems incongruous, there is something momentous in the smile, Sam thinks; something outside of the significance of preparing to destroy someone he loves. It's calculated but it's melancholy, the kind of smile that means Dean's mind is made up and Sam isn't going to like what he hears, the kind of smile that's so damn sorry for what Dean is about to say that it makes Sam protest even before his brother utters the words.

"Dean, no, don't—"

"It isn't him," Dean says simply.

Sam freezes statue-still on the outside, stares dumbly at his brother, and Dean's eyes are unblinking, shining with the sincerity that comes from knowing he's right.

"I began all of it, Sam," he says, glacially calm. "Down in the Pit, when I broke the first seal. And I never ended it like I was supposed to."

Inside Sam all is chaos as his heart skips a beat and then speeds up rapidly. "But Dean, that was then. It was Cas who began this."

"No, hear me out." Dean shakes his head, raises a hand, tells Sam slowly and assuredly, so that every word will sink in and be wholly convincing. "I am the Righteous Man." He pauses, blinks his incredulity at the notion, and gives a soft huff before he goes on. "And remember what Death said before we broke Cas out of Purgatory? How only I can do it, and I need to play my role?"

Sam can see the hawk-like black-clad figure in his mind's eye now, hear his clipped admonishments. "Like you were supposed to the last time…" he echoes the memory, in a gasp that sounds parched and frantic because it is.

His brother nods. "And I never did that, Sam. You did. And it never ended. It just played out different, like Death said. And it always will. Until I stop it."

Dean pauses for a moment, like he's waiting for Sam to catch up, but _it makes no sense_ , Sam thinks, because they're following set rules with a set outcome, and this is an exact algorithm, not an approximate one. He shakes his head, persists even though there's a whisper of doubt that winds silky around the words, because the rules already went out the window when they lost the relics and the ritual that went with them. "You can't stop it, Dean. It won't work because you're not the False Prophet. Remember what Eloni told you and Cas back at the temple, about how—"

"How the second beast comes out of the earth?" Dean cuts in softly. "I came out of the earth, Sam, remember? I dug my way out of my own grave."

When he replies, Sam's voice has recovered enough to sound almost aggressive, like he really does believe what he's saying. "Dean, come on. It doesn't even mean the earth literally. It means…" He trails off and Dean cocks his head, knows where he was going with it.

"The underworld," he picks up. "Bible calls it the lower parts of the earth. Been there, done that. Him and me both. And the other stuff she said? About being given the power to give breath to the image of the first Beast? Well maybe I did that when I brought his False Prophet back from Purgatory."

At last, a _maybe_ , and Sam doesn't let himself think about his friend. He thinks about his brother, and he seizes on the shred of doubt and holds on tight. "Maybe isn't good enough," he hisses. "You're not the one. It'll know."

"It'll work, I know it will," Dean counters, with the sort of gentleness Sam has seen him use when he speaks to the bereaved. "It'll work because I fit the profile for this gig close enough. It'll work because I screwed up the balance when I left Purgatory through the wrong door. It'll work because I carried Cas's grace inside me and I wear his mark, and that thing won't know the difference. And most of all, it'll work because this whole mess started with me when I broke the first seal, and when we do this spell we're both going to believe it ends with me." Dean's tone goes lower, and earnest. "You have to trust me to do it this time, Sam. You have to believe that I'm strong enough, believe that I'm the one, so the spell will work." He cocks his head, raises an eyebrow almost playfully, but there is meaning in it too. "You didn't think I was the one before."

It's incomprehensible to Sam even though his brother is taking his time and choosing his words deliberately, and raw protest finally scratches out of him. "No. If this works, if we bind you to that thing, you end up back in the Pit, and I—"

"I can't send Cas there," Dean interrupts him softly. "I won't do that to him. And it's time I end this, for once and for all. Like Death said."

Sam tugs his eyes away, clamps them shut. He feels numb inside. "But Cas isn't strong enough to get you back now," he chokes out.

He feels the light pressure of his brother's hand on his shoulder, and it slides up and around to the back of Sam's neck, as Dean pulls him in so that Sam is just inches away.

"I know that, Sam," Dean says. "But you're still letting go of me. Like I let go of you. You _will_ believe I'm the one, and you _will_ bind me to that monster. And I will drag it to Hell, and after I do that, there are no deals. You hear me? You live your life, for me. And take care of Cas for me." At the name, Dean's eyes go unguarded and grief-stricken, his composure lost for a second before he swallows hard. "He's not going to handle this, Sammy. Watch over him for me?"

There is a frozen hush when Sam thinks he might have _options_ , that he might simply resist, that he might be able to talk Dean round. But even as he thinks it his mouth is saying the only word it really can, through the horror that swells his throat, even though all he wants to do is press his head against something cool and think of anything but the Lake of Fire.

"Yes."

Dean smiles, nods just slightly. "And you watch over yourself this time, okay? Not like last time. This time you handle it."

In the next moment, Sam is breathing Dean in, held tight in Dean's embrace like he has been so many times on this journey of theirs. He is safe in the arms of his brother, whose journey on this road will end in flames just like it started in flames, the blaze that burned their mother a foreshadowing of the Hell they both know, because the experience of fire is a thing that binds them, that makes them family. And Castiel is family too, and now he is going to understand what fire can take from you, feel the burn it leaves behind, seared into the heart; and he will know how so small a flame can make an eternity spent burning in Hell's inferno seem miniscule in comparison.

Dean is pulling away now, even though Sam doesn't want to let go, and he slides back to where he was before, at Sam's side. "Maybe after we gank this fucker, Cas will get the mojo back, beam you both up out of here," he says quietly.

Sam is scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Maybe," he mutters, even though he isn't sure if he really cares about getting out, but then he thinks of what Meg said before Dean emerged through the hatch. "From what Meg said, it sounds like it all resets after we do it, and we're up in the world again."

"Like after Stull," Dean muses. "It was like nothing ever happened there." He nudges Sam in the ribs. "Or we could always find a bike with a basket in the front, set Cas in it and you can pedal back home."

There is an instant of silence then, before Dean laughs. It's muffled, stunned laughter, with an undernote of hysteria, and Sam doesn't even register joining in but he finds that he is, snickering so hard that he can't draw breath. Dean doubles over, leaning heavily on him, and before they're done gasping like fish there are fresh tears in their eyes. It's bitter, Sam thinks, but sweet too, and he has a second of clarity when he realizes that these are the things he will miss that he can't share with Castiel or anyone else; these simple human moments of brotherhood, through shared memories of watching E.T. in a motel room in Kentucky, while Dean draped an arm around his shoulders and pulled the blankets up around them both as John slept it off in the next bed. Who would ever care so much for Sam? He thinks of Mira but that's not quite the same. Dean has been mother, father, brother; and there are plenty of brothers in the world who don't bother with each other. Blood doesn't obligate people to care or to love. Dean didn't have to tail him all these years, didn't have to check up on him at Stanford or stand between their father's wrath and Sam's desperate bid for independence. Who would ever do so much for so little in return?

Sam comes out of the thought to find their laughter has died away, and a hush fills the air, deep and endless, until Dean breaks it.

"We'll need to defuse him."

He's suddenly businesslike, because he's in the zone already, Sam realizes; working out a strategy, as if this is a hunt and not his own sacrifice. And Sam responds with no hesitation because he can do this too, he can pretend they're planning to end some fugly out in the backwoods of nowhere if it'll get them both through this. "But if he's blocked—"

"Remember Grant's Pass?" Dean cuts in. "As soon as the Mother croaked, he went nuclear. This thing is blocking him now, but once we start doing this it could wear off and he might power up. You know what he's like…I don't want him jumping in front of this bullet." Dean exhales thoughtfully, reaches up to pull at his bottom lip, and then his eyes go wide. "I got it. I can…" His voice trails away then, as a creak sounds, and his vision tracks past Sam.

Sam follows his brother's gaze to the barge, where Castiel is emerging from the hatch, his hair wildly disheveled. His eyes dart between the both of them before his stare settles on Dean, and his head cants a little as he just _looks_ for a moment.

"We use the same spell," he says softly, and Dean nods.

Sam sees the angel swallow then, and he climbs over the stern and into the Duck, squats beside the weapons duffel. He stays quiet as he fishes about inside it, placing some of its contents next to him, pulling out the small zip pouch Sam knows is Dean's gun cleaning kit. When he settles himself down, Sam can see he has arranged a selection of revolvers there on the deck. He crosses his legs, leans forward to reach for one of them, and starts taking it apart.

"We do it when he's ready," Dean breathes out. "Out there…not in the Duck, just in case you need her. We'll have to hope those fish-things don't follow us." He waits out a heartbeat. "Can you do this, Sam? Can you help me bring this home? Can you handle it?"

There are a thousand things Sam wants to say, and one thing only. _No_. He doesn't say it, doesn't tell Dean he loves him and will miss him, because Dean knows. "I can handle it," he says.

He glances to his right and meets his brother's gaze, as the familiar sounds of Castiel breaking down a gun, with a simple clack of metal and spring as he pulls the barrel out, echo around them. Dean reaches up, surreptitious, snags the cord around his neck and pulls it over his head. The amulet, and he presses it into Sam's hand. "Don't let him see that," he breathes out. "He might guess what's really going down if he does."

Sam closes his fingers around the metal, still warm with his brother's body heat, and he wants to scream that he lied, that he can't do what Dean asks. Instead, he nods just once, and slips his own head through the cord, guiding the amulet down under his t-shirt as Dean pushes up, crosses to sit next to Castiel, picks up the next gun in the line and starts to strip it down.

How many rituals and spells does he know? Sam lost count long ago, and the truth is that those long-ago spells and exorcisms don't matter. Not compared to this one, this final one that Sam holds inside his head and is prepared to recite from memory. But as significant as it is, it's only one part of this ritual. The most important part is the _lie_. He must not only be like a holy priest exorcising evil for the sake of the world and his family; he must be an actor putting on a tragedy mask. And he will hide his dismay and his heartbreak, and he can do this, because he made a promise to his brother and he will keep it this time.

He must do it, because he has no choice, and he supposes that there is irony in the fact he pulled one brother into Hell with him at Stull and now he will send the other there. He wonders if it would be easier if he knew how to be like Lucifer, and he spends the time leading up to this considering that other angel who went with him into the cage, like soldiers walking side by side into the trenches. He looks at the fallen angel from every angle of his memory and there is even a dreadful twinge of recognition from the present, as though even thinking about Lucifer is to call his attention, to pray to him. The monster he left rotting in the cage beside Michael was an angel once, answered prayers once; and perhaps the morning star hears his name and _listens_ , staring up from fathoms away and setting his sights on Sam.

_How do I do this?_ Sam pleads in desperation. _How do I break my heart and watch Castiel's break, too? How do I do this? How?_

Sam wonders if he imagines the low groan of wind that sounds like a tired sigh. He waits. He listens for that still, small voice that he's always being told is a divine, helpful presence, but there is none. Lucifer doesn't answer, though Sam imagines he catches the scent of sulfur on the air and that somewhere in a burning place, a weary soldier folds his arms and nods in Sam's direction, a quiet acknowledgment; one veteran to another.

Sam is so used to being in that role of youngest, second-in-command, last in line, demon-blood boy, the one his father told his elder brother to kill if he couldn't be saved. But the world and the role he has always occupied in it is slowly eroding, and he knows now, knows what Dean has always known – that evil is easy. Doing the _right_ thing, the _righteous_ thing? It'll make his stint in the cage look like a walk in the park. Compared to the heartbreak he knows will follow this, it is.

Dean carried that for all his years.

Now they're down to the last seconds of it and Sam will do this last thing his brother asks of him, and carry the heartbreak for him.

Castiel is another matter, and as if to push that knife in even deeper and twist it in the wound, in the instant he thinks it Sam hears the angel's voice, quiet and firm.

"I'm ready."

"Good luck, Clarence."

It's the one response Sam didn't expect, and he has almost forgotten Meg was even there, propped up in the cabin. He sees Castiel's eyes flick away from Dean and towards her, and he pushes up, steps over Sam's legs to make his way over to where she slumps, and squats down in front of her.

"Now you've found God, perhaps you might consider praying for me," he remarks.

She snorts. "Why not? After all, God's just waiting for my call."

Castiel makes a soft huff of what might be weary amusement, before he murmurs something quiet, in what sounds like Latin, and reaches to touch her brow. When his hand falls away, Sam can see a smudge of gunpowder residue there, the cross he knows accompanies a blessing forming a dark smear over her newly human eyes.

Her features twist wryly. "Well, that was pointless. Soulless, remember?"

"Second chances are rare," Castiel sidetracks neutrally. "Don't waste yours."

Dean is ranging up beside Sam, machete in one hand, and he glances at his watch. "Coming up to noon," he murmurs distractedly, and then he clears his throat, addresses the woman. "We're taking this elsewhere in case we need the Duck to get out of here." He nods over to the milling crowd of mutants. "Make some noise so they think we're still here. Holler if they figure out we're not and they follow us."

He leans down to rummage in the weapons bag, hooks out a Beretta and sends it skittering over the deck towards her. "You might want to save yourself a bullet in case this goes wrong," he says.

Day is a subjective experience in the dark, deep belly of the earth. Sam can see Dean count time as they walk away from the Duck, glancing at the luminous glow of his watch, and knows his brother is thinking the exact same thing as him – _high noon_.

As they pick their way into the darkness, Meg starts singing. It's Ten Green Bottles, laced with sarcasm, and even if Sam knows she's doing it to fool the hybrids into thinking they're still on board the vehicle, it grates on his last nerve and he finds himself wondering if anyone would notice if he casually tipped her off a jagged ledge.

They play the beams of their flashlights out ahead of them as they walk, but in the event it's only a few minutes before they reach the end of the hike. One-hundred or so yards ahead, the crevice they are in stops dead, falling away into an abyss that stretches ahead and up, up, _up_ , into a cavernous vault, gnarled and jagged with stalactites.

Sam edges forward cautiously, peers over and down to see a turmoil of white-capped water far, far below. He tips his head back to stare up then, finds a few seconds to marvel that the darkness isn't total black, that his eyes have acclimatized to this subterranean nightmare they are caught in sufficiently for him to see that there are deeper shades and shadows of jet and onyx and obsidian in the great halls of this earth. He thinks abstractedly that if they ever make it to the surface again, he will be as blind as a mole and the sun will be too bright.

"Don't forget to turn the vehicle around before you leave," Castiel murmurs. He gives a sloppy half-shrug when Sam glances at him, but even though he's breathing slowly, the sharp glitter in his eyes gives the lie to his composure. "The guns are all clean and in the bag," he says, and he pulls out his cell phone. He clears his throat as he looks at Sam. "Sam," he begins, "You've been kinder than I ever deserved. I would like to have done better, and to have done more for you."

Sam schools his features, sets his jaw, and starts the lie, soft and convincing. "It's called regret, Cas. It's a human thing."

"So I'm learning. But I fear the lesson is over, and this is as far as I've gotten." Castiel shifts on his feet, offers Sam his phone. "Would you take this for me?" he ventures, a little hesitantly. "There's a saved text message in the outbox…will you make sure it gets sent?"

Sam nods, takes the phone, and the plastic is still warm from his friend's grasp.

"Good luck, Sam," Castiel murmurs. "Take care of your brother for me."

The irony of the request is appalling, and as Castiel turns to walk away, stumbling a little on the uneven rock, Sam husks out his own remorse at what he's about to do. "I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry."

Castiel half-turns, his reply barely audible. "It'll be alright, Sam."

_But it won't_ , Sam thinks. _It won't at all_. He slants his eyes over to his brother. Dean's face is hard-bitten and drawn as he watches Castiel drift over towards the edge of the drop, and he looks thinner than usual. As he stands there watching, Sam feels an involuntary shiver go through him. Death should have a more final tone to it, a deeper strain on them, he knows. And it is distressing, but what makes it so is survival, and knowing he and Castiel might have to carry on in this existence without Dean for so much longer. Death is easy – they've had practice. This could be an ordinary day, with the all-too-present knowledge that one slip up and one fugly on top of its game could be the end of one or all of them, and he and his brother have acted out this scene a thousand times before, never verbally but with their eyes, _watch yourself, okay?_ ever since their youth.

It's fresh in Sam's memory suddenly, the first frost-bitter winter morning after he found out what roamed the night, when Dean drove him to his newest school. The background play of the radio and the rattle of the heater had been so mundane and nondescript, but nothing was mundane and nondescript any more. _It's the family business_ , Dean had said, and he had given Sam a long look, with regret and apology in his eyes, before Sam opened the door and hopped out to make his way to class, desperate to run back and cling to his safe, alive brother even while he wanted to run from him and everything he represented.

This time Sam is dropping Dean off, and if the spell works he doesn't know when he will see him again, _if_ he will see him again.

Dean swallows thickly and holds out a discreet hand. His eyes are glazed. "I hope I don't ever see you on the flipside, brother," he whispers. "Remember what Joshua said, back in the garden…do it right this time, and when your number's called you'll be heading upstairs. You hear me?"

Sam nods but he doesn't want to. He takes Dean's hand, shielding the action from Castiel as he hovers nearby. A simple shake, a heartbroken locomotion of bone and muscle and calloused hands, shared DNA, accompanied by something Sam wanted to tell his brother on the other side of all of this. "Mira…she's the one, Dean. I'm going to tell her when I get back. And I'll be alright."

Dean smiles at him, sighs once and deeply, and then Sam's hand is released and his brother sets his flashlight down on the ground and makes his way over to Castiel.

Castiel's phone is solid in Sam's other hand, and he grips the plastic tight, takes a steadying breath before flipping it open. The message is there in the outbox, Castiel's own lie. _I'm going to look after your father now, Claire. I will be at peace. Be well, and happy. Your mother also. I hope you both can finally forgive me_.

Sam turns the phone off and puts it in his pocket. He can hear the low rumble of Castiel talking to Dean, and then his voice cracks on Dean's name and is lost, as Dean makes a ragged sound of distress and pulls him into a kiss, walking him back to the wall while Castiel's fingers knead at the back of his head. Sam looks down, focuses on his boots, because it feels wrong to watch them like this, to witness the pain of their final moments together.

After a moment he hears the shuffling of feet, and when he turns back Castiel and Dean are standing apart. Dean is swiping a hand across his eyes and Castiel's face is gleaming wet but he's nodding, squaring his shoulders back, ready and waiting like the soldier he is. "Now," he says.

A long moment ekes out before Dean chokes back a reply. "I can't look at you and do this, Cas. Please."

Castiel's eyes widen and he dips his head fractionally before he walks past them to gaze out over the abyss with his back to them, loose scree tripping over and tumbling into the darkness before his feet. Dean catches Sam's eyes and allows a small nod himself, and Sam clears his throat and begins. A second later Dean picks it up, forcing out the words stiltedly, but in reality this all hinges on Sam, he knows. He's the main thrust of power in this, because one meandering diversion away from the belief that it's _Dean_ will end this. _Can you help me bring this home?_ Dean asked, and yes, Sam will do it, and one day he might even find out what home is; not just all the good memories bundled in a car, but a place where he can hold all the things he loves together and safe, and never have them burned away.

Their voices begin small and then rise in cadence, and their brotherhood is evident in a flawless harmony as their voices interlock over the words. And Dean tugs his t-shirt up over his head as he speaks the incantation, lets it fall messily to the ground, bends to pull his ka-bar from his boot. He doesn't flinch and his hand is rock steady and mechanical as he cuts the banishing sigil he learned from Castiel into his chest, just as he etched it into Castiel's outside the warehouse in Van Nuys. He's methodical in this last betrayal, his brow creasing in concentration while blood beads out of the slashes and trickles down his abdomen, and all the while Sam says the words along with his brother and doesn't have time to think about the tears that drip hot down his face. He knows he weeps and he can see that Dean's face is finally starting to crumple too, but he can't buckle under this sorrow. There is a job to do, and Sam will honor his brother and bring them home. He will _believe_.

Their voices continue in unison, and in the limitless space of the cavern they sound like a Gregorian chant. Dean stares at Sam in the darkness as though he's looking for reassurance, and Sam gives it to him with a tight nod, before Dean fixes his eyes back on Castiel. And it's so much worse to watch the wistful, desolate loss in a doomed man who is not yet gone to his grave; to see how Dean studies Castiel as though he's locking the angel's image in his memory, even when that image is no more than a shadowed silhouette, his back turned away from Dean in the last moments.

And these are the last moments, Sam can feel it; can feel a buzzing sensation that thrums in the air and all around them, somehow more purposeful than the great pounding vibrations that led them into the Beast's vaults even though it's finer and more delicate. And Dean can feel it too, Sam knows, because his brother's eyes are blinking rapidly and he's dropping the ka-bar and making a fist around the blade of the machete, cutting open his palm with a wince. Blood drips thick from his fingers and he takes a breath, and _keep talking_ , Sam tells himself.

And suddenly, there is light.

The light is diffuse but growing in intensity by degrees, so that Sam looks around for the source before his eyes finally settle on his brother with mute surprise. Phosphorus is coalescing from the atmosphere and outlining Dean in brightness, and it doesn't escape his notice. He runs his bloody hand over his shoulder as though he can cast its shine away, but it doesn't retreat. He continues to glow, steady and strong, reciting the words with a hint of wonder; and then he's rising, up an inch, and then another, until his boots lose contact with the rock, and even though Sam is keeping time with the spell his hands rise to his cheeks.

Without warning, Dean's mouth snaps closed, and this is the moment that Sam feared, the moment when they could no longer keep up the sham that this chaos magic they are weaving is made for Castiel. It has been for Dean, always for Dean; and he hovers a foot above the ground now, his arms outflung, the blade of the machete reflecting the light that surrounds him and the fingers of his free hand splayed and strumming the air.

Castiel hears the dissonance, notices that Sam's voice is alone and the chorus is gone. He whips around, gasps when he sees Dean rising rapidly above him, two feet, now three, now four, five, six; and in the blink of an eye Castiel understands, and his face contracts in helpless fright.

"Dean, no!"

Sam sees the effort play across Castiel's face, takes a breath as Castiel's eyes flash weak quicksilver and the air around him ripples as his wings unfurl, ripped from him on an agonized cry and insubstantial compared to the last time Sam saw them. He runs forward with his hands reaching out, as though he will tear Dean from the air, and in that moment Sam sees Dean's mouth open, his lips forming silent words, _I love you_.

And then Dean slams his bloody palm into the sigil on his chest.

_Keep talking_ , Sam tells himself, even though he can hear his voice dry up and falter, even though his eyes are stinging. He's prepared for a supernova of light and power, even prepared to see both Castiel and his brother swept away to God knows where. But Castiel isn't the angel he was before and his desperate effort to gather and direct what grace he can down here only underlines his limitations. He doesn't zap himself and Dean into the ether. Instead he arches back as a muted blast, like the shockwave from a distant explosion, bends and billows from his epicenter much as it had when Meg used the sigil to neutralize him in Madisonville. And _keep talking_ , Sam tells himself, and he does, driving the words of the spell out of his mouth like he's firing bullets straight into all of their hearts. Everything happens in slow motion, Castiel folding in on himself now, his legs buckling as his grace is blown from him; and Dean rising above them all with a terrified shout as light fills the cavern above, erupting from his skin, his eyes, his molecules and atoms.

"You want some of this, you sonofabitch?" Dean is hollering. "I'll take you…I'll take all of you, is that all you got?"

There's an answering howl from the depths of the abyss that curdles Sam's blood, and still he keeps talking, still he _believes_ , as the walls, the ground, all the solid matter of this cavern shift, heaving with a deep breath in, because this place isn't dead rock at all, it's sentient and animated.

It is alive.

It is the Beast.

In that instant, Sam recalls hearing the story of a fisherman who took his small boat out onto ocean waters and found himself floating over a sandbar where none should be. And it wasn't a sandbar at all – his boat had drifted over the top of a surfacing whale. Sam knows what that feels like now; the confusing moment of utter disbelief and bewilderment as the entire world and universe reorients, followed by the dawning realization that something a thousand times larger and more infinite than him is all around them.

And still Sam says the words, and still he believes in his brother.

The walls bulge out like boils standing proud of the skin of this place, swelling to form protuberances that grow rapidly, flexing and reaching, snakelike now, tentacles like the one they saw on the surface, and at their center Sam can see the rock start to crumble, tectonic stress building and fracturing the surface. Boulders and great slabs of granite split away, arcing through the air gracefully and crashing down around them before they smash apart and smaller debris skitters past to tumble into the deep. Sam feels a stinging fusillade of stones rain down onto his head, lifts a hand up to shield himself, and still he says the words and believes in his brother, even while Castiel falls to his knees, his arms up and imploring, and his cries frantic.

Sam launches himself forward, unbalanced and clumsy as their ledge shifts and roils under his boots, until he feels Castiel's t-shirt beneath his fingers. He's vaguely aware of Meg screaming in the distance, and he has a moment of unexpected regret that he doesn't know where she has gone to, but the thought is lost in a rushing like the noise of a roller coaster, a subway train, a jet airliner, as the Beast explodes out of the bedrock in an atomic eruption of fire, its limbs thrashing like giant serpents; and still Sam says the words, and still he believes in his brother.

It is silhouetted in the flames that have set it ablaze as it looms over them, a horned, dome-headed colossus formed of rippling bands of muscle, leathery bat-like wings flapping. It smacks a massive fist down onto the ledge in its fury, its talons scoring fissures in the rock, and the force sends Sam crashing down onto his butt. He scrabbles himself as far as he can from its grasp, dragging Castiel along even as the angel squirms and tries to wriggle free, and still Sam says the words, and still he believes in his brother.

Through the smoke and scarlet glow of the inferno, he can see the Beast throw its head back and snap its mouth open, see gleaming fangs in there, and it roars, a deep bass threat that rises into a screech of rage. The sound is unearthly, piercing Sam's eardrums, sending blinding pain zinging through his head and making his heart stutter as if he's a child again and this is the monster in his closet, the thing that will reshape his reality; and still he says the words, and still he believes in his brother. And _it's working_ , somehow he knows, and pure grief tears and rips through him because he knows what it means for this spell to be working.

Blinking grit and tears from his eyes, Sam peers up to see Dean floating so high now that he is as tiny as a child's doll. But there is the flash of the machete swiping and thrusting as Dean is buffeted and smashed back and forth by the crazed twist and whirl of the creature's limbs, until its hand swoops to snatch him up and dash him against its own chest; and Sam wants to stop, wants to scream Dean's name, but still he says the words and still he believes in his brother. He can smell the acrid stench of his own hair as it singes, breathes in smoldering air that scorches his lungs as he pulls Castiel to him. He thinks of his mother, rendered into smoke fumes and charred bones at the moment this all started for them, and now Dean at the end of it all; and still he chokes out the words, and still he believes in his brother.

Castiel screams, fists flying, and he struggles like a wild animal in Sam's arms, but Sam keeps his grip on the angel and squints up through the murky, sooty smog that hangs in the air, morbid fascination and curiosity compelling him to watch until the end. What sounds like the creature's death throes are transmitted in its shrieks, in the crunch and crack of its limbs against the rock, in the clatter of rubble, and in the tremors that quake through this place; and still Sam whispers the words, and still he believes in his brother.

Fire is licking up all around and above them now, as if a backdraft has set the conflagration to consuming itself, and it's so hot that Sam's skin feels as if it might melt off his bones. The creature's rage still thunders and its wailing still resounds, and if Dean is still alive up there, Sam can't see him. But he thinks he sees faces in the inferno, faces that flex and metamorphose, faces from a thousand hunts past, faces belonging to people he once knew who are dead forever and can never come back from death. He thinks he sees his parents, Jess, Caleb, Pastor Jim; he thinks he sees Madison, Ellen and Jo. He thinks he sees Samuel Campbell, Christian, Gwen; he even thinks he sees Zachariah, Gabriel, Balthazar, and a thousand more tortured, screaming people he couldn't save from Fate, sometimes because they didn't want to be saved.

Sam grapples with Castiel and longs for water, cool, clear water, and still he believes in his brother, but he knows his voice is lost now, that his lips move but no sound is coming out of his mouth. He finds himself dazedly thinking of the ocean at Crystal Beach, of how Kali pulled him from the depths, remembers that moment when everything suspended for him. And he thinks he understands now, thinks he understands everything about the blackness that came for them, because it's like being underwater.

Fire and the wails of long-dead ghosts press down on them from above. There is only one way out.

Sam learned how to drown once. He can do it again, and suddenly he isn't scared any more.

He takes a breath. There's no time to warn Castiel, and Sam hopes and prays that he will understand. He's abstractedly thankful that Castiel lacks his extra thirty pounds of muscle, but even if he has a physical advantage over the weakened angel, that doesn't make it easy. Castiel is wiry and whip-fast as he flails and fights and sobs, but from somewhere Sam finds the presence of mind to wrestle him into a choke-hold that sends him flopping limp within seconds.

And with a final burst of adrenaline, Sam wraps the angel in a bear hug and rolls them off the cliff together, into the darkness, and into the deep.

  



End file.
